Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 168: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

158 stream and the brown steady hand of the man softly stroked the thick white mane. As the stallion drank deep drafts of the cool, sweet water he lost his unreasoning hate toward the man who had pursued him through days and nights, over desert and rugged mountain waste. He did not trust this man-creature—that would come only with the days and the weeks—but Worthing- ton had paved the way to an understanding and mutual effection that was to grow in the days that followed. A month later Worthington broke his little camp. The days had been full— work from dawn till dusk—but they had been the happiest days the man had known. To squat contentedly by his fire at night, the near-by munching of the roan and the desert'stallion as music to his ears, knowing that his whistle would bring a nickered response from both, had been all the com- panionship that he had desired. With steady patience, ever determined and unafraid, he had broken the desert king—put him through the steps of training, teaching him to carry a blanket, then a saddle, to wear a halter, to take the bit, and finally to carry his master, Worthing- ton—all without sacrificing that splendid spirit that was the very life of the horse. That remained—tempered with a new force, the growing love for this man who would have his will, but was ever wise in the getting. The man reined in the great white- crested sorrel for a moment and waved a farewell to the ribbon of water and gieen below. is “So long, Solomon Valley—see yuh again some day,” and the little cavalcade began the climb up out of the gorge to the high mesa above—back to the home ranch, and the presence and companionship of men. igi) LHE day’s work was over. Tall brown men lounged and smoked under the cottonwoods, at ease after hours in the saddle. From the cook-shack came the rattle and din of tinware, inter- mingled with the jangle of never ending verses of, “O, bury me not on the lone prairee.”’ The heat of the day was abating—dusk was nearly at hand. The rambling ranch house nestled against the green slope of the valley, with great cottonwoods interlacing boughs above it, and the reservoir, reflecting Adventure in its cool depths the sky and the willows at the brink—the drowsy horses down in the corrals—all blended into a scene of peace and serenity. The men rose, stretched comfortably, and sauntered toward the corrals. ‘“Met the Don on the south range today,” rumbled big Bill Ford. ‘“What’s the Don doin’ over this way? Wasn’t ridin’ the Black, was he?” queried Windy Seemans, ears pricked with interest. “Nope, not ridin’ ’im, but claims he’s faster’n ever—says as how money talks! Stub, how’s Billy Day runnin’?”’ Stub ruminated, spat twice, and bit off a fresh chew. Five feet two or three, wiry, brown, bowed deeply at the knees, and weigh- ing not more than a hundred and ten, he presented a marked contrast to the rangy riders about him. He had been a jockey back East, had drifted out into the cattle country, and there he had stayed. He loved horses; could ride like the wind. Ever optimistic, he was the much-loved Stub. He had ridden Billy Day in the Sweep-Stakes the year before, and losing to El Diablo, the Don’s black stallion, had all but broken the little rider’s heart. He cocked a bowed leg over the corral bars, cast an apprising eye upon Billy Day, and drawled, “Looks a leetle bad—not so all fired sure as I was last year. Can’t never sometimes always tell—Billy Day’s better’n he was, all right. He’s a fast little horse, an’ he’s sure game! But he’s small an’ that black devil will have it all his own way. Don’t know, boys—but there’s six weeks or so yet before the rodeo, ain’t there?”’ “Sure, Stub—six weeks yet—an’ you an’ Billy get that time to do as yuh —— please. Jest remember, we’re a-bankin’ on yuh to fetch home the bacon f’r the ol’ Horse Shoe!” Hooves sounded from above, followed by a welcoming hail. A man and horse stood at the edge of the mesa, above the ranch house. Another horse, riderless, moved into view. The man rose in his stirrups, swung his sombrero aloft, and chanted, “I’m a lone coyote—from the Guadaloupes, An’ it’s my night to howl!” ‘Worth! if it ain’t Worthington!” chorused the men below as they turned from the corrals and made for the ranch house. Fast falling dusk concealed the identity of, COnmiclbooks Cc C@